


Bears, though?

by jaythewriter



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Inappropriateness in the form of embarrassing internet history, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim thinks he and Jay need to relax for a little. Jay takes that suggestion... and runs with it.</p><p>Silly drunk!jay fic with jam on the side I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bears, though?

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for drinking... and that's pretty much it, actually.

“We deserve a treat,” he said, “We should go out and buy our favorite kind of drinks and have a good time back in the hotel room.”

“It’s called self-care,” he said when you protested. “You need to relax and let go sometimes or you’re not going to be able to function properly.”

“Just buy the goddamn rum,” he said when your hands hovered over the least expensive bottle at the back of the seediest liquor store you’ve ever been in.

Fuck every word he said. You’re now lying on your back in said hotel room, and though you know that you aren’t actually falling rapidly through a rip in the space-time continuum, that’s certainly what it feels like. Anything you ate today, you’ve already digested, and thank fucking god for that. Or thank your intestines. Something is to thank for the peace inside your stomach.

Certainly not the man sitting at the desk across from your cushy bed, fading in and out into triplet versions of himself and the laptop glowing before him. 

“Stop being three people,” you order him, though the words come out more like, “Shtip eing tree steeple.”

“That’s fascinating, Jay, go to sleep.”

“No! You slime ball! Why aren’t you-- you drunk, too…”

“Because unlike some people, I have self-control and drink in moderation,” Tim replies, casual as one would be when asked about the weather.

You bristle at him, teeth grinding, and roll onto your stomach, bedsprings creaking beneath you. That’s the fiftieth-- maybe fifth, not-sober-you has an extraordinary talent when it comes to exaggerating things-- he has told you to pass out already. Inconsiderate fuck, you might be dying of alcohol poisoning or just straight out poisoning, who knows what those glowering people down at the store put in their drinks. 

Not that you’re actually dying, you think. But if you were, Tim would be an awful source of help and comfort. Tim continues to tap at the laptop… your laptop, actually, yours, as in, he is on your laptop looking through it when you haven’t had time to clear up all of the--

“What’s this?”

Shit.

“No!” you choke out past the frog in your throat. The floor jumps under your feet when you stumble out of bed and-- straight onto your face, acquiring rug burn all over your cheeks. You roll onto your back and blink off the smeary clouds swirling across your eyes. Tim, in all of his thickly bearded glory, stares back at you. Touching your hand to your now red and burning face, you look between him and your hand.

Nobody will ever believe you, especially not with this single bed room.

“Fuck, fuck, the lady is gonna think we were fucking, fuck,” you whine into your hands, containing your face behind them. Tim’s eye roll is almost audible as he rotates the whiny desk chair back around to face your laptop.

“Oh no, she’ll let our secret out: hey, everybody, those hobos who looked like they might have blood stains on their clothing are totally doing each other up the ass.”

His sarcasm fails to soothe the paranoia pulsing wildly at the back of your brain. 

Speaking of--

“What the fuck are you snooping on my computer for?” you demand while you valiantly attempt to claw your way across the floor, useless legs all but forgotten. “St-- stop, get outta Chrome, I see you on Chrome--”

“‘Twinks and bears’, huh, that’s not something I would’ve expected from you.”

Tim’s eyes are on you again, and there is a gentle, playful smile in them, but you want to scream anyway. Scream until security comes up here and takes this nosey little asshole with his nice strong arms and his hairy face and everything about him away.

But all you can muster in your drunken stupor is that he’s a shithead, and you hiccup, curling into the tightest anti-alcohol ball possible.

At some point, arms wrap around your form and you’re lifted into the air, coming back down to rest on the absurdly soft bed with the fluffy blue blankets that you get to rub your face into. You do exactly that before expelling an exhausted sigh and balling up again.

You swear you hear Tim chuckling from across the room at you, and not too long after, the bed sinks with his weight. His stupid, /stupid/ strong arm drapes around you, and only then are you able to drift off on a floaty bouncy boat to sleep.


End file.
